


Alone and Together

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is the one who must deepen it--he is so much like a newborn calf, sometimes--and so she does, sliding her tongue along his lips and then his teeth and then the soft, wet interior of his mouth, as she clutches with grasping fingers at the front of his tunic to pull him closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone and Together

While Ragnar is away, Lagertha is lonely. They fought again, before he left, and he fucked her hard on all fours and pulled her hair until she screamed his name and the names of their gods and he promised she would be feeling sore for days. But Lagertha is nothing if not a warrior, and while she’s still got bruises left on the backs of her thighs, she is lonely now, and she is wanting. 

It is not without intent that she sends Bjorn and his sister on an errand, something so trifling and silly she’s already forgotten what it is.

Athelstan offers to accompany them, from his little mat in the corner of their home, but Lagertha’s mouth curves into a sly smile as she shakes her head. His eyes go wide and his mouth opens wider, but he nods at her, and sits back as the children leave. He does not stop staring at her, and Lagertha is always surprised by his intensity. The slave Ragnar brought back from England had been a quaking, quivering, crying thing for weeks and weeks, but now he is something closer to being one of them, and found his own kind of strength along with that. He’d been hesitant when Lagertha and her husband first invited him into their bed, and then nervous, but he had been a fast learner, and most importantly, eager to please.

His eagerness is on full display, now, as the children take their leave and he clambers to his feet and towards her, where she is waiting for him seated on the edge of the bed. He sits beside her, still tentative, but the blue of his eyes is like a searing flame as he leans in, watching her face carefully as he press their lips together in a kiss that is almost chaste.

She is the one who must deepen it--he is so much like a newborn calf, sometimes--and so she does, sliding her tongue along his lips and then his teeth and then the soft, wet interior of his mouth, as she clutches with grasping fingers at the front of his tunic to pull him closer.

A trembling hand comes up to brush against her breast, and Lagertha growls and arches into his touch, to encourage him further. His grip tightens, then, and she nibbles on his lower lip in approval. Not for the first time, she wonders how he can stand to be so gentle with her, when he’s watched Ragnar fuck her into mattress and floor and wall, and watched her master him in return. But Athelstan’s gentler caresses are nice in their own way, even if they only serve to make her crave more of him.

He begins to tug at the laces in the front of her gown, mouth moving lower as he does so. Down the pale column of her neck and to her shoulder, trailing lips and tongue across her.

“Is this not a betrayal of your selfish god?” she asks him, in a husky murmur. “The way you’ve come to worship me?”

Athelstan only shakes his head and moves down again, pulling the dress back from her shoulders and off of her arms. She shrugs the garment off, and listens appreciatively to his sharp intake of breath before his lips return, circling a hard nipple with his damp tongue. She moans and drags his head closer, fingers tangling in the absolute mess of his hair--though it’s surely an improvement over the round bald spot that used to be there. He’s lapping and sucking at her, now, and she shudders when his teeth graze over it. He would keep at that all day, if she would would let him--he learned nothing if not patience trapped behind monastery walls--but she will not let him, because she has need of much more.

She snarls, low in the back of her throat, and with her hands on his shoulder pushes him down to the bed. Without prompting, he begins to struggle out of tunic and trousers both, and she wriggles out of her skirt and she’s only left in her stockings, but she’s far too _gone_ to bother with those, as she begins to crawl up his lean body. He’s slighter than Ragnar, and not nearly as strong, but she love how ethereal he appears in comparison with long, pale limbs and the bluest eyes she’s ever seen.

He gasps when she pauses at his cock--hard, of course, and all her doing--and gives it a long, slow, lick from base to tip. Hips thrust into the air involuntarily, and she chuckles and does it again, this time wrapping her tongue around his head. She hums when she tastes salt and almost-sweetness--his cock is leaking for her, and she thinks that’s fucking beautiful. He moans and his head falls back, while his hands gently stroke her hair.

But Lagertha doesn’t want gentleness, doesn’t need it, certainly not now.

She slides her lips down him, and then up again, while Athelstan begins to babble and probably swear to his god in a language that she doesn’t understand. When she buries him in the back of her throat, and _swallows,_ she can feel his whole body struggling to maintain some semblance of control, and he pulls harder at her hair. She withdraws then, and sucks at a sensitive spot on the inside of his thigh--there’s still a bruise there, from when Ragnar had him last--and whispers against it:

“Don’t you want to fuck my mouth, _priest_?” And she’s only teasing with the nickname, and bites down hard on muscle. “Or shall I fuck yours instead?”

And she’s crawling up his body again, with a feline sort of grace. Another pause--this time to grind herself down against him so he can feel how wet he makes her, and she digs fingernails into his shoulders from the pleasure that alone gives her. He reaches up with both hands, warm and calloused, to thumb and pinch her nipples--as he _thrusts_ upwards.

But she moves away before he can drive into her, and her lips are a red smirk sloppy with her own spit.

“Not yet,” she tells him, her breath in his ear, and continues moving up--

Until she’s straddling his face, his mouth, and he obediently trails his tongue across her, almost lazily--though his eyes are wide and bright on her with interest, to watch her every reaction to his movements--and when her eyes close and she throws her head back with a wild moan, he does whatever he just did _again_ \--and _oh yes_ she knew he was a fast learner, a quick study.

But he’s not moving fast enough--he never does, at the start, he likes the force they treat him with when he’s being too damn _patient_ for them--and she fists her hands into his hair and pulls his open mouth flush against her and thrusts her hips against him. His tongue snakes inside of her while she rubs herself where the pleasure is sharpest against the flat of his _teeth_ , and he’s careful not to hurt her with them as she rocks back and forth upon his face.

His hands are still on her nipples, and they twist now, harder, because he knows what she likes and how she likes it and _oh--_

She cries aloud then, when he sucks hard at the peak of her desire, and collapses against the wall behind them, clinging to it with her hands and barely holding herself upright and panting until she can regain her breath. 

Athelstan continues to move his tongue, back to his lazy pace of before, and she squirms and bucks against it for a few moments longer, before she moves down until she’s back hovering above the curve of his cock. Her hand grazes across the smooth skin there, and he finally stops looking so self-satisfied with her wetness spread across his lips and chin and cheeks, shining in the dim light.

When she leans over to kiss him, she tastes herself on lips and tongue with her hungry open mouth, and lowers herself onto him. It isn’t slow, or elegant--she slams her body downward in a single movement, and it leaves them both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together as they share their bodies with one another.

His hands move to her sides, but she shakes her head and grabs his wrists, pins them to either side of his head. There will be finger-shaped bruises left on his wrists from the harshness, but she knows what he likes, too, and he likes this. He likes it even more as she begins to roll her hips, and they both revel in the friction of her breasts against his bare chest.

“God--fucking Christ--” he chokes out, and bucks upwards, deeper into her, his back arching like a bow.

She knows how tight and hot she is for him--the first time they did this he only lasted a few moments, but his stamina has improved with hours and days of practice--and she’d laugh at his reverence for her if she wasn’t moaning freely at the feeling of his cock buried inside of her, and the control he gives her whenever she fucks him.

She rides him slow at first, and then faster and harder as her fingernails dig firm into the sensitive flesh of his wrists, and it might even hurt but he is groaning louder now, and then her name--she can feel beads of sweat begin to form along her thighs and stomach, and all that’s between them is slick and skin and the rhythm of her hips.

Lagertha raises herself up and slams back down, and then again and again. When she leans back and releases his wrists, he locks tight hands around her waist and thrusts upwards. The angle is even _better_ like this, and he’s hitting that place deep inside of her that makes her growl and tears a scream of his name from her throat.

He watches her and keeps thrusting while she loses all control, writhing on top of him, until the constant clenching of her muscles around him inside of her force him over the edge too.

“ _Lagertha_ ,” he says her name as he comes too, and it’s almost a sob, and his god never made him feel like this, searing pleasure as he releases into her--if she bears another child with blue eyes and unruly black curls, Ragnar will only laugh--

She falls forward, and they shudder against one another with the aftershock of it. Athelstan’s arms come up around her to pull her close, and he nuzzles against her ear and they both close their eyes.

And while what they have is good, both of them know it won’t be perfect until Ragnar comes back home. 


End file.
